There and Back Again: A Potter's Tale
by Regina Noctis
Summary: After a mysterious and powerful witch rescues them from Death Eaters, Harry, Ron, and Hermione find themselves thrown back in time with Neva Underhill. . . into the midst of a power struggle over a certain Ring. HBP canon. HP & LOTR cross.
1. Godric's Hollow Ambush

The bell of the old church in Godric's Hollow was tolling six o'clock in the evening. The overgrown cemetery behind the church was deserted, as was usual for that time of the day. The stooped caretaker, the surpliced priest, the prim undertaker—all had gone home for the evening at their appropriate times. The only living creature visible was a small robin perched in the holly tree overlooking the graveyard. He twittered and chirped happily, as if enjoying the final moments of sunshine in the warm September weather.

Suddenly, the robin fell silent. The gate of the cemetery had swung open, and three teenagers walked through. All were wearing knapsacks, and all were looking around furtively, as if unsure of their surroundings—or wary of being followed. The leader, a young man with messy black hair, waved his companions over to a certain headstone just beneath the robin's perch in the holly tree. Soon, all three were in a huddle before the headstone; black, brown, and red hair mingled with each other in the tight circle. The black-headed boy seemed to be crying, while the red-haired boy and the brown-haired girl were in the process of comforting him.

Just as the robin opened his little beak to resume his chirping, the graveyard's peace was further disrupted by the arrival of six masked persons in black robes, similar to the one worn by the priest who came to church every morning. But these were definitely not priests, the robin knew immediately; with a shout, they leaped over the fence surrounding the graveyard and made a rush towards the three figures by the headstone.

The two boys and the girl immediately separated and pulled out long sticks of wood from their pockets; their attackers did likewise, and soon the graveyard was filled with loud cries, flashes of light, and smoke. When one of the spells went awry, it more often than not struck one of the many gravestones and sent chunks of rock flying in every direction. The poor robin was so frightened that he could hardly fly away fast enough.

* * *

"What—in Merlin's name—do we do now?" Ron panted as he, Harry, and Hermione sprinted through the woods, ducking under branches and leaping over obstacles as they ran. They had just escaped the Death Eaters by jumping over the back fence of the graveyard and into the dense forest surrounding the graveyard. But they knew they couldn't run forever: they were getting short of breath already, and the shouts of their attackers were not far behind.

"Find cover!" Harry shouted back. He was at the head of the line, with Hermione next, and Ron bringing up the lead. Streaks of dried tears were visible on his cheek, as were the light scratches from the brambles and branches they had passed in their hasty retreat.

"But where? The only option for cover would be _in_ the trees, and then we'd be really stuck!" cried Hermione. Her bushy brown hair was bushier than ever, with the added decorations of many tree leaves and twigs.

"Look! There's a house, just up ahead!"

Sure enough, Harry was right. The trees ended in front of a large clearing. Right in the middle of it was a small log cabin, only slightly bigger than Hagrid's hut back at school. The chimney was smoking merrily, and the sound of angrily-clucking chickens could just be heard, as well was one long _moo_ from a cow.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron bolted the rest of the way to the front door, where Harry proceeded to pound on the wooden door with all his might. "Is anyone home?" he yelled. "Please, let us in, there are Death Eaters after—"

The door swung open, effectively stopping Harry in mid-sentence, revealing a young woman dressed in wizarding grey robes and a midnight blue cloak. Her dark, elegant tresses fell to her shoulders and gave her an added sense of grace that, with her majestical features, made one feel as if one was standing before an ancient queen. But her features were not cold and hard; rather, they were warm and full of life, as if she was used to laughing often, but also filled with a great sadness. And her eyes—they seemed to shift hues as one looked into them, from flinty steel to warm grey and back. Harry and Ron were mesmerized; even Hermione was impressed by the woman standing before them.

The woman broke the spell by ushering them inside and closing the door behind them without another word. Harry, Hermione, and Ron found themselves in a spacious room that served as parlor, kitchen, bedroom, and study, by the looks of it. In the fireplace, a black kettle bubbled and smoked away; the smell coming from it was delicious. A wooden bookshelf loomed over the small bed in the far corner, complete with titles that even Hermione had never seen before.

Their observations were distracted by their hostess, who had until that point observed them with those changeable eyes of hers.

"Harry Potter." Her voice was a trilling soprano, sweeter than honey to the ears. "I know who you are—indeed, who doesn't in these evil days? But who are your companions?"

"I'm Hermione Granger," said Hermione, who was the first to recover her voice. She pointed to the furiously-blushing redhead next to her and added, "And he's Ron Weasley. Forgive him for his lack of manners—ow!" Ron had elbowed her in the ribs with a glare.

"Indeed," the woman's eyes glimmered with laughter. "You mentioned Death Eaters before you came in?"

"Yes." Harry wiped the sweat from his forehead. "They attacked us behind the old church across the woods and followed us here."

"How many?"

"Six," Ron finally got his words back. "Six, but I don't know if we lost any on the way over."

"Hmm. . . half a dozen Death Eaters. Well, I think I shall manage." The woman closed her eyes for a second before opening them quickly. "They'll be here in a minute. Stay inside—I'll go out and meet them."

"But—but that'd be six against one! Outrageous odds!" Ron blurted. "If we help, that'd be six against four, which would be—"

"Trust me, Mr. Weasley," the woman interrupted. "There are things that are more important than numbers." She flicked back the edge of her cloak to reveal a sword belted to her waist and smiled. "I'll just show them some proper Godric's Hollow hospitality before sending them on their way again."

"A sword?!" Hermione gasped. "Don't you have a wand? They'll cut you down otherwise!"

"I beg to differ, Miss Granger," the woman snapped. "_I_ shall be the one doing the cutting. Now, stay here!"

"Who are you?" Harry asked.

The woman had a hand on the doorknob, but turned back at Harry's question. She flashed him a gentle smile. "My name. . . is Neva," she said quietly. And with a swish of her cloak, she opened the door, stepped outside, and closed it behind her with a soft click.

Immediately, Harry, Ron, and Hermione ran to the windows on either side of the door. Harry took position on one, while Ron looked through the top of the other, with Hermione peeking out from beneath Ron's body. Neva was standing a good six feet away from the door with her back towards them, waiting.

Within seconds, the Death Eaters filed out of the trees and formed a semicircle around her. Their hoods were pulled far over their heads, making them look rather like a herd of dementors. The three inside the cabin held their breaths anxiously.

Neva was the first to speak. Her voice floated through the walls of the cabin, muffled but distinct. "And what brings six servants of the Dark Lord to my humble home today?" she asked, much in the same tone as one would ask about the weather. "When have I merited such an honor as this?"

"Just give us Potter, woman," snarled one of the Death Eaters. Harry thought it sounded like Dolohov, but he couldn't be sure. "We know he's in there—we tracked him and his friends all the way here."

"I'm afraid you must be mistaken," Neva bowed her head politely. "There are no potters here, but I will gladly recommend you to someone in the village square for your earthenware needs, if you so desire."

"Is she barking _mad?_" Ron whispered in horror. "How can she think of back-talking to the Death Eaters like that?"

"Enough blather, woman!" another voice commanded, this one definitely belonging to Lucius Malfoy. "Just hand over Harry Potter and his little friends, and we won't hurt you. But should you resist. . ." Malfoy laughed cruelly. "I can't promise you anything but a slow and painful death."

"Indeed?" Neva's voice remained calm, but her shoulders tensed visibly beneath her cloak. "And what would you do with this Harry Potter, should I find him inside my cabin by some strange chance?"

"Take him and his friends to the Dark Lord for further—_punishment,_" said a voice that Harry recognized as Snape's (with more than considerable anger).

Neva tilted her head to one side, considering. "Well, in that case. . ." She deliberately took one step forward. The Death Eaters dropped a step back cautiously. "If you want him. . ." With a flash of steel, she drew her sword. "You'll have to fight me!"

"Aww, an itty-bitty little girl like you shouldn't play with sharp toys like that," taunted a sing-song woman's voice. Harry's blood boiled. _Bellatrix. . ._ "She could get hurt—especially if her parents aren't around to watch her."

"And thanks to you, milady," Neva shouted, the first time her anger was revealed, "they're both dead!" With that, Neva swung her sword down on Bellatrix, stopping the blade just before the edge touched the woman's head.

Bellatrix screamed as fire poured out of the sword's tip and set her robes and hair on fire. Hermione's cry of "It's a spelled sword!" was nearly lost in the wild cries of agony that Bellatrix was producing. The other Death Eaters tried to put out the fire, but all water spells were in vain; the water seemed to be repelled by the fire itself. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all but gagged as the smell of burning flesh entered the cabin. Fairly soon, Bellatrix's screams subsided into nothingness, and there was nothing left of her but a pile of charred robes. The other Death Eaters were clearly horrified.

"Now," Neva said quietly, making her words all the more dangerous, "I give you two options. One, you run back to your master like the sniveling fools that you are, and tell him that Neva Underhill bows down to no one. Or two, you stay here and fight me, and I swear I shall make you die a painful death—and believe me, I have my ways. Tell me, what is your choice?"

Two of the remaining five Death Eaters responded by sending Killing Curses at her. Neva parried them with her sword, deflecting both spells; one struck its original caster, who promptly dropped dead in a flurry of robes. Before the second would-be killer could even move, Neva had cut him down with her sword. Hermione couldn't hold back a gasp as the man fell in two pieces, his blood staining the grass around him. Neva raised her free hand, and the other three Death Eaters were thrown backwards by an invisible force. They landed on their backs, panting and fearfully gazing up at the woman in grey and blue towering over them.

"Get out of my sight!" she snarled. "And if I should find you here again—" she held up her sword menacingly, "you know what awaits you."

The Death Eaters didn't wait to hear more. They quickly scrambled to their feet (without a second glance at their fallen comrades) and ran, Disapparating as they went. As soon as they were gone, Neva turned back to the house, looking even more majestic with her grey eyes flashing fire.

Ron hurried to the door and opened it for Neva. "You're a mage!" he cried happily. "Why didn't you say so before?"

"Because no one asked, Mr. Weasley," Neva replied dryly, sheathing her sword and walking past Ron into the house. "And there wasn't much time to explain before those bumbling idiots who just left attacked us. Nor is there much time now, as I assume the remainder will be informing their master of my insubordination. I must get you three out of here."

"A mage!" Hermione gasped. "But. . . I thought they were long gone, a thing of the past!"

"Indeed not, Miss Granger!" Neva looked slightly affronted. "I may be the last of my kin, but I still exist! The bloodline of Telcontar does not fade like many others of its kind—it has been prophesied that the line shall never disappear, and so far it has not."

"Erm—excuse me, but what is a mage?" Harry asked, his head still spinning from the bloody sight he had seen.

"A mage," Hermione jumped in to explain, "is someone who is trained in the old ways of doing magic, before wands were invented."

"Precisely," Neva said as she knelt by the hearth, manually packing some food and drink into a small rucksack. "Wandless, mostly wordless, magic is my main talent. I have the healing touch, as did the rest of my family, and I am also blessed with the Sight."

"The Sight!" Hermione breathed.

"Yes," Neva nodded. "The Sight. I can see things far away, things close at hand. . . perhaps even things in the future, if I should try hard enough."

"Which is exactly the reason why I had your family murdered."

The hissing voice from the doorway caused Harry, Ron, and Hermione to whirl around and Neva to jump to her feet. Voldemort stood there, his hood thrown back to reveal his pale, snake-like face. His red eyes glittered malice, and the bare nostrils widened a little, as if sniffing out a certain scent he was fond of. Through the window of the cabin, Harry could see the dozens of Death Eaters milling on the front lawn.

They had been surrounded.

"Neva Underhill, indeed," Voldemort whispered as he entered the cabin. The three in front were forced to the walls by a wave of his hand, leaving Neva standing alone and defiant. "I came here looking for you many years ago, or have you forgotten?"

"I haven't," Neva said through gritted teeth. "You killed my parents and my older brother. How could I forget?"

"Your parents and your older brother," Voldemort repeated, savoring every word. "Yes, I killed them, didn't I? But when I came that night, I didn't intend to kill them. . . I was really looking for _you._"

Voldemort leaned forward into Neva's face. "Our side needs powers like yours. Powers that will help us win the battle against Mudblood-loving fools like those you have hidden here—" he gestured to the three teens frozen against the wall. "Your family died only because they revealed they were blood-traitors, the worst of their kind. If you join us, we shall win, and I promise you that your—murders—of three of my best Death Eaters will be forgotten. If you don't join us, we still shall win, and then all retribution shall fall on your lovely head." Voldemort pulled back, a satisfied smirk on his face. "What do you say, Miss Underhill?"

"Your promises are worthless," Neva spat, "and I can at least die working for the side I believe in—the side of the Light. I reject you utterly, _Voldemort._"

Voldemort seemed taken aback, but he quickly recovered himself. "Very well, then," he hissed, drawing his wand, "I'm afraid I'll have to finish you off like I should've done seventeen years ago. . ._Avada—_"

"_Hostes omnes meo finio!_" Neva shouted with her right hand outstretched, finger pointed directly at Voldemort's chest.

Voldemort froze. In fact, all the Death Eaters outside the house froze as well. They visibly struggled, but not one of them could raise a hand or lift a foot. Some tried to cry out, but their voices were locked within their closed mouths, and their tongues certainly wouldn't move, so they had to make do with wordless shouts and grunts. Harry was shocked, as were Ron and Hermione. Neva was using the diversion to busily scratch an intricate rune onto the dirt floor of her cabin with her sword. When she finished, she sheathed her sword and beckoned to them.

"Step into the rune! Quickly!" she shouted. "I don't know how much time we have before the Freezing Spell wears off. . ."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione wasted no time in complying. Once they had arranged themselves inside, Neva joined them, closing off the circle they had begun. She took hold of Harry's and Ron's hand and motioned for them to do the same. Then, once they were all holding hands, she began to sing in a strange tongue to a lilting melody:

_A Elbereth Gilthoniel,  
silivren penna míriel  
o menel aglar elenath!  
Na-chaered palan-díriel  
o galadhremmin ennorath,  
Fanuilos, le linnathon  
nef aear, sí nef aearon!_

No sooner had she finished singing than Harry saw the world around him begin to spin and dissolve into a mirage of colors. Not a moment too soon, either; the spell Neva had cast was beginning to wear off, and Voldemort lurched toward the quartet with a blood-curdling cry as they faded out of existence. Harry felt like he was slowly melting away into a ghost of himself, until nothing would be left of him but perhaps his backpack and his glasses.

By the time Voldemort and his followers were completely free of the Freezing Spell, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neva had disappeared entirely.


	2. The Sign of the Prancing Pony

Harry opened his eyes to find himself lying on his back in soft grass, staring up at the darkening sky, his glasses still on. He sat up quickly and looked around. Ron, Hermione, and Neva were lying in various positions around him, with all their packs thrown out next to them. His own backpack was just a foot away from his left hand. His right hand dove into his pants pocket to be greeted by the smooth wood of his wand, unbroken and undamaged. Comforted, he gazed at his surroundings, trying to make heads or tails out of their location.

They were on a rolling hillock in the middle of a picturesque countryside. The green grass bent gently in the breeze, and trees were scattered everywhere he could see. The sun was dipping beneath the tree-lined horizon; Harry guessed that they had an hour before sunset. To his right, there was a dirt-paved road that stretched onwards until it was blocked by a metal gate not twenty yards away. Just behind the gate was a small lodge in the style of Neva's house, its chimney sending white smoke into the sky. The road probably led into a town or a village, one that they should take refuge in before the sun went down.

Slowly, the other three next to him began to stir. First Ron, then Hermione, and finally Neva sat up to gape at their surroundings. Neva immediately lay back down after one look and closed her eyes.

"Where in Merlin's name are we?" Ron asked after some moments of silence.

"Exactly what I was trying to figure out," was Harry's glum response. "This place is completely unfamiliar to me. I don't even know if we're in England anymore. . ."

"The better question would be, 'When,' Mr. Weasley," said Neva, still lying down with her eyes closed.

"What?"

"We're still in England, I think," Neva continued, "but we are most certainly in a different time. The villagers in the place over there—" she waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the looming gate down the road, "—are all farming with oxen and plows, or milling about in the town market. It looks like something from the medieval era of Britain. Or, perhaps, the Roman era would be a better description."

She opened her eyes and sat up abruptly. "I'd recommend changing, if you have wizarding robes with you," she said, looking into each of their stunned faces. "I don't know how kindly the villagers will take to modern dress—they look rather sheltered, if you ask me."

Hermione gulped. "But, if they're medieval. . . wouldn't they try to burn us? If they found out we were—wizards and witches?"

Neva shook her head. "They seem to know of magic, if the runes I saw on the walls and doorways are of any evidence," she said. "And besides, Ms. Granger, I should think that adult witches and wizards should have little problem keeping away fire with a simple Fire-Repelling Spell."

"Unless the fire is coming from an angry mage," Harry muttered, remembering Bellatrix's memorable death. In a louder voice, he added, "Let's try to take shelter in that town, then. I think we all should have our robes in our bags. We'll figure out what's next when we get there. And Neva. . . if we're going to be together for a while, would you mind calling us by our first names? I don't want to feel like I'm traveling with a Hogwarts professor."

Ron and Hermione laughed. Neva smiled in acquiescence. "Of course," she said. "Then, I shall wait here while you get changed, _Harry, Ron,_ and _Hermione._"

* * *

The sunlight was almost completely gone once the three teens had changed into wizarding robes and cloaks behind one of the many trees on the hill. They quickly joined Neva (who had pulled her hood far over her head) and walked up the hillock and onto the main road, heading toward the spot Neva had pointed out where the village would be. As they approached the metal gate that blocked their path, they saw a grizzled old man sitting on a chair in the doorway of the small lodge behind the gate. He was puffing on a wooden pipe, sending smoke rings into the deepening twilight. When he saw them coming to the gate, he tucked his pipe into his overcoat and scrambled to his feet before coming over to them, snatching up a lantern on the way.

At the gate, the old man raised his lantern and surveyed the four travelers, with not an altogether friendly gaze. "What do you want, and where do you come from?" he asked gruffly. His accent seemed to be a mix of country English and Irish. When Harry hesitated, he exclaimed, "Go on, go on, I don't have all night, you know! Old Harry of the West-gate has a right to know the answers—can't just let in every silent stranger that passes!"

"We are travelers from a distant land." Neva stepped forward and threw back her hood. "This territory is unfamiliar to us, and we are looking for a place to stay for the night. Is there an inn in the village yonder?"

Old Harry gaped at her. "A woman—traveling?" he muttered. Then, catching sight of Hermione behind her, "And two of them! Well, stranger things have happened before—but I never thought that menfolk from the South were keen on letting their womenfolk travel like this. Yes, indeed, mistress, there is an inn—The Prancing Pony, owned by one Mr. Barliman Butterbur. Best in the area. Would you like directions?"

When Neva nodded, Old Harry unlocked the metal gate, pulled the creaking doors open, and stepped back to let them enter. "Welcome to the village of Bree!" he said, bowing as Harry, Ron, Hermione, and finally Neva passed through the gateway. He pointed down the road towards town. "Keep going straight, and you can't miss it! Just tell Barliman that Harry of the West-gate sent you, and you'll find as warm a welcome as you could wish for. Good evening to you!" And with a wave of his hand, he settled back on the stool in the doorway of his lodge and pulled out his pipe again. As the foursome walked farther on the road, he puffed on it and stared meditatively at their retreating backs.

The four travelers walked on in silence at first, before Hermione opined, "These people really are old-fashioned. Imagine, someone being surprised that women are traveling! I'd place us at least several hundred years back in time, if not more."

"By the way," Harry turned to Neva walking next to him, "what was that song you sang? The one you used to get us here. Do you think we can use it to get back to our time?"

Neva looked over at Harry regretfully. "I'm not quite sure," she said. "My grandmother taught me the song and the rune when I was a little girl, warning me that they were only to be used in times of dire need. My intuition told me that our need was dire enough when Voldemort had us surrounded like that. But I don't know if it would take us back to our original time, even if it should work at all in this world."

Harry was disappointed, to say the least. To be stuck in a strange world, perhaps with no escape! Neva must have seen his emotions in his face, as she hurriedly added, "But don't worry. I'm sure there will be some wise mage in this land who can help us. After all, in these early times, there were many more wizarding peoples familiar with this type of magic, even more powerful than those in our generation."

The four of them continued walking. Houses were beginning to loom up on either side of them in the darkening gloom. Some had cheerily-lit windows, some had open doorways with warm firelight streaming out—and one three-story building in the distance had both. Loud male voices singing and the clinking of mugs could be heard, even from their distance; and as they hurried to the entryway, a swinging wooden sign of a fat pony rearing up on its hind legs materialized from the darkness over their heads.

"The Prancing Pony," muttered Ron as they filed inside.

* * *

The inn was bustling with life when Neva, Harry, Hermione, and Ron entered, filled with fireplace smoke, pipe smoke, and loud noise. The common room was alive with activity, and almost all the tables were filled with guffawing farmers and their mugs of ale or beer. There was a bar, too, where more men were toasting each other, singing merrily, and always calling for more to drink. The innkeeper, the short fat man in a white apron who walked between tables to chat with the other customers, saw them enter and hurried over to meet them.

"Good evening, masters!" he said, with a slight bow. "What may you be wanting?"

"Beds for four weary travelers," Neva replied, removing her hood. Harry decided that it was wise enough not to answer, as Neva seemed to know how to talk to these people better than he did. "Harry of the West-gate recommended us here, Mr. Butterbur, I presume?"

Like the gatekeeper before him, Butterbur gaped at Neva; but he had the good business sense to catch himself before saying anything untoward. "Well, then, mistress, of course!" he said, fumbling with his apron. "We have just enough rooms for you tonight—you'll be wanting two, I'm expecting?"

"No, indeed," Neva cast a bemused look in Harry and Ron's direction. "One room will be just fine, thank you very much." When Harry realized what the innkeeper was hinting at, he felt himself flush—thank goodness the hood hid his face from view.

"Hi! Nob!" The innkeeper's shout brought a funny-looking young boy running over. He had curly brown hair, a clean-shaven face, and cheery bright eyes; he only came up to Ron's midriff, meaning that he had to be at most three or four feet tall. Harry noted that the boy was barefoot, and was surprised to see that his feet were completely covered in thick, brown, curly hair. When the boy spied Neva, he stopped and gaped at her.

"No time for staring, you wooly-footed slowcoach!" Nob immediately started to attention at Butterbur's sharp tone. "Get these guests four beds in a room for tonight! Double quick! You wouldn't be having horses to stable, would you, mistress?" The innkeeper turned back to Neva, who shook her head. Nob ran off with a wink and a grin to carry out his orders.

"Make yourselves at home, masters and mistress!" Butterbur bowed, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione lowered their hoods in response. "My goodness, I meant, masters and mistresses! My, my, what are the times coming to these days? Might I ask for your names?"

"I am Neva Underhill," Neva said, then pointed out the others. "This is Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger."

"Indeed! Pleased to meet you all, and Barliman Butterbur at your service. Well, Miss Underhill, there are some other Underhills here tonight, but I assume you aren't related to them, as they're hobbits."

"Beg your pardon, they're _what?_" Ron spluttered.

"Hobbits. Never heard of hobbits before? Why, you folk must be from some faraway country, not to know of them!"

"You could say that again," Harry muttered, but Butterbur didn't hear him.

"Nob here is a hobbit. The Little Folk, we call them in Bree, as opposed to the Big Folk, or people. They're short, curly-haired, and uncommonly fond of good eating. Most of them live in holes in the hills and riverbanks of Bree-land and the Shire—this is in Bree-land, and the Shire's the land more out west; and some, they say, have the power to disappear at will, but I don't know about that. You'll meet some in the common room tonight, I'm sure. Would you be wanting your supper here, or in your room?"

"Here is fine," Neva said, and so Butterbur left them to give instructions to the kitchen.

Neva led them over to an empty table in the corner, where they all took a seat. "I think we have a problem," Hermione said quietly once they were ready.

"What is it?" Harry asked.

"Money." The worry showed on Hermione's face. "I doubt we have enough for a night's stay here; and even if we did, we don't know what their currency is!"

"Merlin's beard, are you a witch or not?" Ron said, amused. "Just Transfigure what we've got, or conjure more if we don't have enough!"

"Ron! How many times do I have to tell you?" Hermione's voice rose. "You can't Transfigure anything into precious metals, and you most certainly can't create it out of thin air! It's one of the five exceptions to Gamp's Law of—"

"Shut up!" Harry hissed. "_The man next door is listening!_"

Sure enough, a tall man in a soiled green cloak had sat down at the table next to theirs whilst they were deep in their conversation. His hood was still over his face, but a wooden pipe stuck out from the depths of it, as did the bright gleam of his eyes. He did indeed seem to be listening to their strange conversation, and both Ron and Hermione immediately quieted down. But the man's eyes continued to observe them silently, lingering especially on Hermione and Neva, both of whom had their backs to him.

"Do not—draw—attention to ourselves," Harry whispered urgently. "No one can know that we're magical—I'd prefer getting back home without getting burnt at the stake first. Remember, we're not at home anymore; and even if we were, watch what you say around here!"

The other three nodded, just as Nob brought over trays of their dinner. It was simple country fare, plain bread and meat with some cheese and fruit; but the meal was as good as ambrosia and nectar for their empty stomachs.

As they were finishing their meal, Harry noticed four short people in cloaks with the hoods down—hobbits, if their close resemblance to Nob said anything—enter the inn and hold a long conversation with Butterbur. Harry felt himself drawn to the apparent leader of the group, an older-looking hobbit with a grave demeanor; something, a certain something that Harry couldn't put his finger on, set him apart from the others. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man in green sit up a little taller (if that were possible) and focus his gaze on the newcomers, following their every move—especially those of the grave hobbit in front.

While Ron and Hermione were discussing the possible courses of action to be taken in their position, Harry followed the four hobbits with his eyes as they moved en bloc to a table near the middle of the room. Neva watched them as well.

"There is a strange aura about that little one," she murmured. Ron and Hermione stopped talking to stare at her. The man in green turned towards her as well—or perhaps he was just shifting in his seat. "He carries a dangerous burden with him, one that most others would shy away from; and yet, small as he is, he is the Chosen One, almost like a Harry Potter of his time, you might say."

"How do you know all of this?" Hermione asked.

Neva closed her eyes. "The Sight reveals many things, including the hearts of most men—and hobbits," she added, opening her eyes again. "But reading minds is not limited to the Sighted; there are quite a few witches and wizards who are gifted Legilimens—Voldemort is one, as were Dumbledore and Merlin before him."

Neva fell silent. After a pause, Hermione cleared her throat. "I still think we should try to find someone to get us back home," she began tentatively.

Ron snorted. "I already told you I agreed with you, but who in this Merlin-forsaken country would know of a powerful enough wizard who can help us?" he exclaimed. "Honestly, Hermione, how naïve can you get?"

Harry noticed one of the four hobbits who had just entered the inn turn around at the word 'wizard.' As one of his companions stood up to go to the bar, this hobbit got up and made his way over to the four teenagers in the corner. Hermione was opening her mouth to make a retort when the hobbit arrived next to their table. He had the same curly brown hair as the rest of his kind, and his eyes were bright with hidden laughter.

"Begging your pardon," he chirruped, "but did I just hear you ask about a wizard?"

_I knew we should've been more inconspicuous,_ Harry groaned to himself, but it was too late. Ron was staring at the hobbit with more than a little suspicion, but Hermione was clear-headed enough to answer. "Yes. . . why do you ask?"

"Just because I know of one, miss," the hobbit said cheerfully. "Mind, I only know _of_ him—my friend Frodo back there—" he waved his hand back in the direction of his table, "—knows more of Gandalf than I do, but there you go. Gandalf is more famous in these parts for his fireworks than anything else; but they say he knows more mysterious things than the Elves, and that's saying a lot. We were supposed to meet him here, actually, but he hasn't turned up yet."

"Do you—do you think we could meet him?" Ron asked, his suspicion wearing down a bit.

"Of course! But, how stupid of me, I haven't introduced myself!" The hobbit bowed. "Meriadoc Brandybuck, at your service, though most of my friends just call me Merry," he added with a grin.

"Neva Underhill, at yours and your family's," Neva spoke up, leaning forward to get a better look at the hobbit. "And who are the friends that are with you?"

"My cousins, Pippin Took and Frodo Ba—I mean, Underhill," Merry said with a slight flush as he pointed out his tablemates. Pippin was sitting at the bar, chatting enthusiastically with the other men and hobbits there; Frodo sat at the table, looking serious and talking in a low voice to another hobbit. "Not that you two are related or anything, miss. Oh, and Frodo's friend, Sam Gamgee, is with us as well. Like I said before, Gandalf was supposed to meet us here; if you want, I can introduce you all to him when he does come."

"That would be wonderful—" Harry started to say, but he was interrupted by a cry from the hobbits' table.

"Pippin, NO!"

The hobbit whom Merry had pointed out as Frodo, and the one that Neva had identified earlier, jumped up and ran over to where the said Pippin was sitting at the bar. He made to grab at Pippin's arm, but Pippin shook him off, asking drunkenly, "What's wrong with you, mate?"

At which point, Frodo lost his balance and tumbled to the ground. . . where he promptly vanished from sight!


	3. Strider

Disclaimer: All characters from _Harry Potter_ are the property of J.K. Rowling, and all characters and general plot arc from _The Lord of the Rings_ belongs to the late J.R.R. Tolkien. HOWEVER…Neva Underhill, while influenced by both authors, is irrevocably, one-hundred-percent MINE. Mine, I tell you! *clutches protectively*

* * *

The entire company in the common room fell into a stunned silence at the sight of one of its members disappearing without so much as a pop or a flash. Then, a melee of voices fought to make themselves heard at expressing their disbelief.

"Hey! Where did that hobbit go?"

"Wasn't he there a second ago? Right next to that little hobbit at the bar?"

"Did you see that? One moment there, and another moment—gone!"

"He could've tripped and crawled away."

"No, that warn't what happened—he disappeared way too fast."

"He took a stumble, and then hey presto! He vanished!"

"He went right through the floor, he did! I was right next to him, I saw the whole thing!"

"Reminds me of those tales I used to hear in Hobbiton, about Mad Baggins and his house full of treasure. He would vanish with a bang and a flash and come back with sacks full of dragon's gold!"

"Say, that little hobbit sitting here was jus' talking about a Baggins being with him, in this inn. D'you suppose they're related?"

Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neva, and Merry all stared in shock at the patch of floor where Frodo once stood. Harry's mind was racing. Only an Invisibility Cloak could provide instant invisibility, but even then it was obvious that it existed before one put it on. This, however, was different; it was almost like Frodo had been snatched away. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw the man in green start in his seat and scan the room with an almost suspicious air.

"Well," Merry finally said in a choked voice. "That certainly wasn't expected…"

The man in green suddenly ducked under his table. There was a yelp, and then the man stood upright with a very embarrassed Frodo held by the collar. Some muttered words later, and then Frodo was trotting after the tall man in the direction of the inn rooms, looking very sheepish indeed.

"Say, why is Frodo going off with that strange fellow?" Merry asked in alarm. Sam and Pippin seemed to have the same idea, as they both clambered off their seats and made to follow Frodo and the stranger. Merry hastily bowed in Neva's direction. "If you'll pardon me, miss, but I'd better go and see what Frodo is up to now. Hopefully, I'll be seeing you when Gandalf comes!"

"Indeed," Neva inclined her head politely. "But before you go, would you kindly tell us the date? We have traveled long and far, and it is so hard to keep track of the time…"

"Of course! Today is the twenty-ninth of September, in the year fourteen-eighteen by the Shire reckoning." And with that, Merry scampered off to join his friends.

"Did you see that?" Once Merry was fully gone, Ron turned to them in excitement. "That hobbit, Frodo, went invisible on us—just like that! Maybe the innkeeper's right, about hobbits being able to disappear at will—"

"—which would mean they have some sort of magic that we don't know about," Hermione finished. "I find that highly improbable, Ron."

"As do I," Neva tapped a tattoo on the table thoughtfully. "No, that strange aura I sensed earlier flashed when Frodo disappeared. It has something to do with that, I'm sure of it."

"Clever idea, by the way," Harry said to Neva. "You've figured out what year we're in."

But Neva shook her head. "It helped us not a whit. You heard him say, 'by the Shire reckoning.' That would most likely mean that they count the years differently from ours. I still don't know what time we're in, unless…" She trailed off into silence.

"Unless what?" Hermione dared to ask after many moments.

Neva shook herself out of her thoughts. "Unless we're in an era so far back that our reckoning would not apply. I used to read about such times in the many history books my grandmother used to have in her library—but I'm not sure I remember much anymore. I do recall that the people referred to the world they inhabited as Middle-earth, and that the founder of my line lived around this time as well." Neva twirled a strand of her dark hair around her finger. "Perhaps he could help us…"

"If only we could find him," Harry mumbled despondently. "And I'm sure he'd believe you at once if you told him you're his however-many-times-over great-granddaughter."

Hermione stifled a yawn. "Well, I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm tired. Shall we get to bed early and start out fresh?"

Everyone agreed and rose to find their room. The rest of the common room was slowly emptying out as well, and it didn't look like there would be any more magical disappearances for them to watch in any case. A quick pointer from Nob, and soon the foursome were walking down a long corridor on the second floor of the inn that was lined with guest rooms. It was dark in the hallway, and they had much to do in order to find their room number on the door.

Harry, however, was still thinking about Frodo's strange vanishing act. Also, how did he end up underneath the table of the man in green, so many feet away from the place where he first disappeared? How had the man in green known that the invisible Frodo was there? Was the man a wizard as well? And why was he paying attention to their own conversation over dinner that night?

"If I had killed the real Strider, I could kill you. And I should have killed you already without so much talk. If I was after the Ring, I could have it—NOW!"

Harry froze as a man's angry voice rang out through the corridor, penetrating through the door just to Harry's left with startling clarity. Four hobbit voices cried out in terror as Ron and Hermione came running back to join Harry in front of the guilty room; Neva came up from behind, her sword already drawn.

"We've got to help them!" Hermione whispered frantically.

Harry nodded and pulled out his wand; Ron and Hermione followed suit. "On the count of three," he breathed, his own heart pounding with adrenaline. "One—two—three!"

"_ALOHOMORA!_"

The door swung open with a bang, revealing a small bedroom already crowded with people. The tall man in green from the common room was in the process of sheathing a sword quite similar to Neva's. Merry, Frodo, Sam, and Pippin were cowering before him; they turned and immediately backed away to the sides of the room in fright as Harry, Ron, Hermione, and finally Neva stormed in.

The tall man quickly drew his sword again and lunged at Harry, who was leading the attack. But before Harry could think of a spell that would stop the sharp blade that was making a beeline for his neck, Neva threw herself in front of him, her own sword flashing, with a cry fresh on her lips. "Andúril!"

The two swords clashed with such a flash of white light that all in the room had to shade their eyes. When Harry could see again, the tall man was staring at Neva with shock written all over his face. Both of their hoods had fallen back to reveal their faces; the man in green was dark, handsome, and rugged, with the light of wisdom gained from many years' experience shining in his dark eyes. Neva, however, was nothing short of beautiful; her hair and her fair skin almost glowed in the moonlight from the near window, and despite her slight panting from her exertions, she stood as straight and tall as the man before her. There was something similar in their looks, a slight familiarity between them that nudged at Harry's subconscious.

A heavy silence filled the air as they stared at each other. Then, after many long moments, the man slowly lowered his sword. He raised his empty left hand to trace Neva's cheek with his knuckle—a far too intimate gesture for Harry's taste, his hand unconsciously clenching tighter around his wand. Neva herself stiffened, but she made no move other than to lower her sword as well.

"_Arwen,_" the man breathed, breaking the tense silence.

"I am not Arwen Undómiel, if that is who you are referring to," Neva replied, shocked surprise evident in her shaking voice. "She is my ancestress, however, and it is said that I was born in her likeness."

The man let his hand fall to his side, a panicked look taking over the shock on his face. "Your ancestress, you say? Pray tell me, then, who was her husband?"

Neva hesitated. "Tell me," the man repeated with more urgency in his voice.

"Aragorn Elessar, the King of Men in far ancient times, and the master of the family heirloom I now wield," she replied in little more than a whisper. Harry's spine tingled as he took in that bit of information. Their newest companion was descended from royalty?

The man staggered slightly before regaining his composure. "Who _are_ you people?"

"And why should we tell you that?" Ron challenged him, even though Hermione gave him a look that would have silenced anyone else.

"Because, young man, it is not considered good manners to barge into a room and attack its occupants without at least introducing yourselves, as you four have done." The man's eyes glittered in the moonlight, still fixed on Neva. "Perhaps your names will suffice as an apology."

"Ron Weasley. Hermione Granger. Harry Potter." Neva pointed them out before bowing slightly, her eyes never leaving the man's face. "Neva Galadriel Telcontar Underhill." The man inhaled sharply at Neva's name; but she did nothing but straighten herself and address the man before her. "And perhaps it is your turn to introduce yourself to us, good stranger."

There was a pause. "Indeed, I shall, Lady Telcontar." Neva started in surprise. "For that is your correct title, is it not? But first, allow me to ask… you four are from the future, am I correct?" This time, he turned to include Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the conversation.

"How—how did you know?" Hermione stammered after a stunned silence.

"Firstly, your names and your dress are not of this world—or time, I should say." The man sheathed his sword as he spoke. The hobbits merely watched the scene with silent wonderment. "Secondly, my very identity proves that fact. For I am Strider, known in the High Speech as Telcontar, known to all others as Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Chief of the Dúnedan and Rangers of the North." The man bowed deeper than Neva had done as she gasped and took a step back in recognition of the name, her eyes widening. When he rose, he gave her a piercing stare. "Elessar is not a name I shall assume until I succeed in overthrowing Sauron and becoming king, just as I shall not marry Arwen Undómiel until my set tasks are completed."

"My lord…" Neva suddenly dropped on one knee before Aragorn, surprising both hobbits and humans. Her sword clattered to the floor beside her. "Forgive me for drawing so hastily against you."

"Apology accepted, Lady Telcontar." Aragorn nodded towards Harry. "Your actions were meant to protect a friend in danger, and I understand the necessity. You may rise."

"Now, see here, Strider!" The chubbiest of the hobbits, whom Merry had pointed out as Sam, found his voice first and stepped forward. He glared at the four newcomers suspiciously, his chin quivering angrily. "I don't like the sound of this. They say they're from the future, but they could be lying spies from Mordor for all we know! I want to hear more of their story before I believe them."

"Mordor? What's that?" Harry, Ron, and Hermione asked at the same time, their confusion obvious to all.

"Definitely _not_ spies from Mordor," Merry muttered as Neva stood up and sheathed her sword.

"No, we are not, and if you would let them explain—" Neva motioned for the trio to come forward, which they did. "I am sure that most of your questions will be answered."

"And perhaps we can find some way to help you," Aragorn added.

Harry glanced at Ron and Hermione before taking a deep breath. "Well, I suppose it starts out sixteen years ago in our time, when I was a year old…"

* * *

When Harry finished telling the tale of Voldemort and the Second War, with many interruptions and additions from Ron and Hermione, the room was silent for many long moments. The hobbits and Aragorn looked as if they had a difficult time accepting the fact that there was another evil force to be reckoned with in the future, and Neva was staring out the window into the night sky with an unreadable expression. Aragorn was the first to break the silence.

"Now do you believe them, Master Samwise?" He asked the hobbit softly. "Their story is not something one can make up on the spot, and especially not from someone who works for Mordor."

Sam nodded reluctantly and was joined by the rest of the hobbits. "But…why are they here, Strider?" Frodo demanded. He was fingering something in his pocket and looking at the newcomers with some fear in his eyes. "What would possibly make them come from their time to ours? I'm sorry, but it makes no sense."

"It's my fault, really." Neva spoke up from the window without turning fully back to them, her gaze somewhere among the stars. "Voldemort attacked us, and I used a Sindarin rune and song from my grandmother to get the four of us out as quickly as possible." She smiled ruefully. "But I didn't expect us to be taken back thousands of years into the past."

"Sindarin? Why, that's what we study in Ancient Runes!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Ancient, indeed," Aragorn replied quietly. "If I understand your tale rightly, you must be from many thousands of eons after our time, as hard as it is for all of us to believe." He fell silent for a moment, then sighed and shook his head. "I can think of no way for me to help you return to where you four belong."

Hermione couldn't hold back a choked sound of disappointment, and even the normally-cheerful Ron looked grim as he stared at the floor.

"However," Aragorn added quickly, "I know someone who might be able to assist you in your endeavor. A wizard we would call him, as I suppose we would call you four, from your description of yourselves." Harry slowly nodded, glancing down at the wand in his hand and quickly stowing it away in the pocket of his robes. Hermione and Ron followed suit, and all the while Aragorn's perceptive eyes followed their movements. "He is of the race of the Istari, one of those sent from our ancestral lands of Valinor to Middle-earth many centuries ago to help us in our fight against Sauron. Olórin was his name then, but now he has us call him—"

"Gandalf the Grey." Neva finished Aragorn's sentence suddenly, causing the Ranger to turn quickly to her. She had turned away from the window, with her back to the moon; even so, her eyes glittered faintly in the semi-darkness her shadow had created. "Merry mentioned him earlier, and I have read often about him in my grandmother's books—he is famous among those of our lineage."

"Your lineage, you say." Aragorn addressed Neva solely now. "If all that you say is true, your lineage is the same as mine. Tell me, what of your family? Who else is there to carry on our line?"

Harry could only see Neva's silhouette against the moonlit window, and because of that he observed her shoulders stiffen at Aragorn's question. Many moments of silence fell between them before Neva said in a deceptively quiet voice, "I have no immediate family, my lord. If I am not mistaken, I am the very last of the Telcontar line remaining on this earth. With exception to you, of course." She inclined her head in deference to Aragorn, but Harry could see the tension remain in her shoulders.

"I see. My lady," Aragorn added, bowing in return before gesturing to the four hobbits now sitting in various positions around the room. "As I was telling these hobbits before you so abruptly interrupted, I could easily escort them to Rivendell, the Elf Haven west of the Misty Mountains, where Gandalf no doubt will be waiting to meet them. If you so wish, we could travel together, and I would gladly serve as guide and protector to both parties."

"But with those four coming, we'd be nine travelers strong," Sam protested. "That's far too large a company to travel, what with making it through the strange territory and nasty forests and all that. They'd slow us down, surely!"

"Slow us down like that shortcut through the Old Forest did, perhaps?" suggested Pippin, the smallest of the group. He was still visibly affected by the ale he'd consumed at the bar, though he did well in not showing it in his voice. "Or that stop we made at Bombadil's? Or the Barrows, maybe?"

"Good sirs," Neva interrupted with slightly-raised voice before Sam could swell up with his retort. "I promise you, we shall do what we can not to slow you down. We may be from another era, but that does not mean we are invalids or incompetents. Give us a chance, and we will do our best to rise to the challenge." Neva glanced around her for confirmation, and the three Hogwarts students could only nod.

"Well, if that is settled…let us bed for the night." Aragorn took a seat by the window and leaned back, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "Frodo, your room is too dangerous. Anyone searching for you would immediately check the rooms known to house hobbits, as yours does. If you would have my advice, I ask that you stay here for the night. You are free to check on your room in the morning, of course, to see if you have been discovered or not."

Frodo considered it for a moment, then nodded. Neva, on the other hand, moved forward and bowed deeply to Aragorn. "My lord, we will take our leave of you now," she murmured. Harry bowed after her, and Hermione and Ron followed in quick succession.

Aragorn nodded, his eyes lingering on Neva's face as she stood before him. "Be ready to leave the inn before the dawn breaks," was all he said before the four of them made their way out of the Ranger's crowded room. But Harry, the last to go, noticed how Aragorn continued to follow Neva with his eyes, his face thoughtful as he watched her leave.

It was, Harry thought to himself as he climbed into bed, almost as if Aragorn had wanted Neva to stay.


End file.
